


Haven

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-17
Updated: 2007-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when he touches himself he thinks about nothing but the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

Sometimes when he touches himself he thinks about nothing but the moment; his cock, his hand. Pressure, pleasure; right where he wants it, when he needs it. He's been called selfish all his life, but some things really are all about him.

Sometimes he thinks of nothing but his audience. Then it's not his hand and his cock, but rather thousands of voices calling for him; desperate, needing. They want things they can't even name, except that it's his name they call, and they're all his if he but asks. Beautiful, ugly, short, tall, thin, fat; anything he wants. Everything.

Sometimes all he can think of is Curt. He remembers Curt's face, that strange mix of earthy and ethereal. He remembers cupping it gently as he thrust between lips stretched tight around him, stretched tight and thin except for that perfect bow. Sometimes he imagines that bow kissing down his cock again as Curt takes him in, takes anything from him, anything he asks. Everything he asks, until there's nothing left.

Sometimes he doesn't touch himself at all, too caught up in the past he let get away. He let them all slip through his fingers grain by grain, sand in a glass, the loss unnoticed until he held nothing but regrets. Then the regrets touch him -- hands, voices, lips -- but far too late.

He hears someone enter his room, then pause, looking for him, but he knows they won't follow him in here. Always so intrusive, but his bathroom is a haven they won't invade. A tentative voice calls for him. "Mr. Slade? It's time now."

Brian takes one last look in the mirror. His hair, what's left of it, is neatly in place. Sometimes he misses the blue, misses the eyeliner, but he knows it would sit oddly on the marks time has left in him. He touches the wrinkles, fingers sinking deep, and he wryly thinks that that's as close to penetration as he gets nowadays, when all he has left to fuck is time.

He follows the nurse out of the sterile white room he almost lives in, to the sterile white doctor beyond, and he thinks, not much left to fuck at all.

/this  



End file.
